Borderline Delirious
by KateToast
Summary: Small, unseen moments on the Victory Tour, from District 11 to the Capitol and back to 12 again. "I can't afford to feel anything right now other than motivation to keep my loved ones safe by being outrageously happy with Peeta Mellark."
1. Dancing

**XXX**

"_During ceremonies, we are solemn and respectful but always linked together, by our hands, our arms. At dinners, we are borderline delirious in our love for each other. We kiss, we dance, we get caught trying to sneak away to be alone. On the train, we are quietly miserable as we try to assess what effect we might be having." – Catching Fire, pg. 71_

**XXX**

_District 11_

We notice that when we're dancing people don't bother us as much, so we dance – fast songs, slow songs, forcing oblivious laughter at each other's moves, stealing quick kisses as if we're silly enough to think no one is watching us – in reality, praying that they are.

During a quieter tune, arms around each other, I put my mouth to Peeta's ear – the crowd will think I'm whispering a lover's secret. "I can't stop thinking of the man earlier," I mumble. I keep seeing his body slump sideways on the steps.

His grip around my waist tightens. "Me either," he says into my hair. "And the other shots fired—"

"I know," I say, unable to help imagining Rue's tiny sister curled in on herself, a gunshot wound, but then it morphs into a spear and I force myself to stop. We can discuss this later on the train, which is at least a bit more private than in the middle of the dance floor, though possibly just as bugged. "Is your leg okay? Do you want to stop for a while?" I ask.

Peeta shakes his head. "No, I'm fine right where I am," he answers, drawing me closer, and I notice a group nearby admiring us with wide smiles. I manage to give them a smile of my own and then turn my face into his neck, hiding my crumpled expression.

He presses a kiss to my head and we continue to sway. I can't afford to feel anything right now other than motivation to keep my loved ones safe by being outrageously happy with Peeta Mellark. I think of his earlier question: "_Was that really the only time you kissed Gale?_" I don't know how to explain the guilt it gives me.

Twelve stops to go.

**XXX**


	2. Sneaking

**XXX**

_District 10_

It's his idea. The day in District 10 didn't offer much in the way of acting very coupley, and we agree we need to do something more interesting than just stand around smiling and kissing. On the way into the dinner Peeta suggests it: "Let's sneak away at some point."

At first I think he's serious, but then I realize he means we should _very obviously_ attempt to sneak away to be together, and subsequently get caught. It's brilliant on his part and cruel on mine, for I know every "intimate" moment we spend together hurts him. It hurts me, too, but we're a little too far into this game to start constantly worrying about each other's feelings.

We're presented, there are a few speeches, formal pictures are taken, the food is unveiled, and the dancing begins. During our third song he asks, not too quietly, "Would you like a drink?" He gives me a knowing look.

I smile and say, "That sounds lovely."

The couples around us glance our way as we leave the dance floor, and we casually meander around the drink table for a moment before clasping hands and beginning to back away toward an exit I'd noticed others coming and going through.

A man who introduced himself earlier, but whose name I can't for the life of me remember, comes through the door just as we're nearing. I quickly arrange my features in what I hope looks like "nervous about being caught" as he stops in front of us. "Where are you two off to?" he asks, giving us a wink.

"Just admiring the architecture," Peeta says too brightly.

"Beautiful building," I add as Peeta tugs my hand to the door. I wave to the man as we disappear into the hallway, wondering how long it will take him to mention our encounter to someone else.

The hallway is empty, but voices drift our way, growing louder. I pull Peeta in that direction, but after a few steps he stops and kisses me. I frown when he pulls away, but he's already leading me further down the hallway as the voices approach, and then I understand the scene he's attempting to create. I catch sight of a few partygoers coming toward us and, pretending I didn't, grab Peeta's jacket and press our lips together. He stumbles and ends up pinning me to the wall, giving our spectators quite the show.

When we break apart Peeta pulls my hand again as if to continue down the hallway, as if we're so wrapped up in each other we haven't noticed the little crowd yet, and just as we both turn our heads a woman proclaims: "Busted!"

A real blush creeps over my skin as the others chuckle and teasingly admonish us for trying to slip off. "Save it for the train!" someone shouts, making the others laugh more.

Ever-reliable Peeta takes on a sheepish air, glancing at me before shrugging to the group. "It was worth a shot," he says, then adds conspiratorially, "Maybe this can be our little secret."

Those words do the trick. Not even ten minutes later, back in the party, Effie walks by and tuts unhappily. "We will need to discuss proper party etiquette when we are back on the train."

"That should be fun," Peeta says, escorting me back onto the dance floor. I nod, wondering just how quickly gossip can travel, and hoping that maybe by then President Snow will have heard the silly story about his two victors. I actively _don't _think of the kiss in the hallway.

Eleven stops to go.

**XXX**


	3. Drinking

**XXX**

_District 9_

I just want to be in my bed on the train. The never-ending blur of travel, parades, crowds, speeches, dresses, officials, and dinners is beginning to take its toll, and we've hardly even begun the Victory Tour. This is on top of the constant stress and anxiety I'm carrying around, wondering if we're doing enough, wondering if I'm only making things worse.

The giant clock on the far wall mocks me, saying it's only 11:45 – Effie won't collect us until midnight. I look around for Peeta; various admirers had separated us. I finally spot him by the waterfall of sweet red wine, tilting back his cup.

I put on a winning smile as I approach. "You disappeared," I tell him.

He refills his cup and shrugs. "I've been here," he says, an edge in his voice. "Talking to people. Answering questions."

I eye his drink. "How many of those have you had?" I ask in an undertone.

He only gives me another shrug. "Talking about Gale," he adds.

My insides twist. "What?"

"A woman was asking me how I got along with your _handsome_ _cousin_," he says.

"Peeta," I warn, glancing around to see if anyone is nearby to overhear. He's growing weary of the cycle already, too, but we can't afford a slip-up. "Maybe we can talk about this later."

"Whatever you say, sweetheart," he says, unable to meet my eye, and I can hear the wine and mockery in his voice.

Mercifully, Effie chooses that moment to materialize. "Time to go!"

Peeta pulls himself together for our round of gracious goodbyes, and then we're in the car. I don't say anything, just cross my arms over my dark blue dress.

"I'm sorry," he finally murmurs.

"We need to be careful, Peeta."

"I know," he agrees, tilting his head back, eyes closed.

"You can't get upset when someone mentions Gale."

"I know," he repeats, turning to me. "It won't happen again, Katniss."

"Okay," I say, and the rest of the ride is silent, both of us thinking about a single kiss in the woods, and the stickiness of friendship.

Ten stops to go.

**XXX**


	4. Uprising

**XXX**

_District 8_

All of the speeches on the tour are practically the same. Really, only the names of the dead tributes are what changes. But what's different in each district is the energy – and in District 8, the energy exudes agitation.

The air is thick and foul smelling from factory smoke, and everyone looks grimy and tired. At first I think the crowd is restless because they don't want to be wasting time in front of their Justice Building listening to Peeta and I read scripted words about their district and their lost children, one of whom Peeta mercy-killed himself. I don't blame them. But then, as the mayor asks for one more round of applause for the victors of the 74th Hunger Games, a chant begins.

I glance at Peeta; he raises his pale eyebrows, also thrown off by the crowd rhythmically saying our names, growing louder each time. I offer a smile, but as my name tumbles from the lips below the tone morphs, becoming stronger, fiercer, angrier – a rally cry. My smile slips, and I feel Peeta grab my hand and tug me closer to him as Peacekeepers who were stationed behind us on the platform start passing by.

I've never heard my name said like this – it scares me, not just on my own behalf but for the ones who are chanting it, because the Peacekeepers on the ground are moving in on the crowd, shields raised – and the crowd is pushing back.

The mayor appears at my side, flanked by two more Peacekeepers, looking nervous. His eyes never leave the heated crowd as he says, "You two can head inside."

"What's happening?" Peeta asks, but the mayor is already hurrying off to speak with another official on the platform. One of the Peacekeepers follows him, the other motions for us to go inside the building.

She shuts the heavy door once we're in and I see Effie and Haymitch approaching. "Peeta, the crowd—" I start. Is that what the beginning of an uprising sounds like? The old man in District 11 flashes in front of me.

Peeta's blue eyes are wide. "I know, Katniss."

Effie grabs my arm and leads me down the hallway, already complaining about the treatment we're receiving, her usual post-speech chatter. Peeta and Haymitch follow, speaking in low tones. I say nothing, a lump in my throat, my heart hurting. How can I reverse this incident, which surely isn't helping my case with Snow? How did I _create_ this incident, when all I did was read a script and accept a bunch of flowers? (It all comes back to berries.)

Nine stops to go.

**XXX**


	5. Kissing

**XXX**

_District 7_

It's ridiculous how good I've gotten at kissing Peeta for an audience. At knowing when to kiss him, where the kiss should land (lips, cheek, temple, hand), how long it should last. A year ago I'd never even kissed a boy – now it seems it's all I do, everywhere I go: outside cars, on train platforms, in front of Justice Buildings, on district tours, during dinner, while dancing, while being asked questions, while Effie leads us out of an event – anywhere a person, with or without a camera, may be watching. I don't even want to know what the wild imaginations in Panem think must be happening behind closed doors between us.

We've never kissed in private; the closest I've ever felt to sharing an honest intimate moment with Peeta was in the cave during the Games, but that feels long in the past. He's amazing when others are present, doting and gentlemanly and charmingly possessive, his gazes adoring and wonder-filled, his words perfect. It's almost a shock every time we board the train again and he instantly deflates, mood subdued, space between us once more until we step into the next district.

I worry this may be killing him. It may be killing me – the pretending is exhausting, constantly needing to be mindful of how we're being perceived by the world, wondering if my loved ones will even make it to see the next Games. Each time I see the dead tributes' families is a fresh hell.

District 7 is full of trees, which reminds me of home, but it smells different, more pine and old wood. I think I wouldn't mind living in District 7, whose residents don't seem as defeated as 12 and 10's or as angry as 11 and 8's. Peeta says he likes it the best so far.

"The kids don't look as hungry here," he says, nodding to some children watching us pass by on the tour of the district center. He gives them a big grin and wave, which they respond to enthusiastically. "A lot healthier. They must have cleaner air, too. We grow up breathing in all that coal dust."

I wonder, suddenly, what our future will be like. I've been trying not to think about it at all, pushing it from my mind and focusing on the task at hand, ignoring the revelatory conversation I'd had with Haymitch when I'd realized that my fate could only be with Peeta Mellark. But children must be on Snow's list of requirements of us, once he's gotten us married. The children I've always feared bringing into the world will grow up on coal dust and then be reaped. What a show it will be, a Games of legend, when a child of two victors enters the arena.

I try to keep my face neutral as an official offers a brief history of the lumber mills in the district. Peeta listens closely, nodding along and asking her questions like he's always wanted to know how a lumber mill works. _He's such a good man_, I think again, _and I could do much, much worse_. It would all be so much easier if I could just love him like he loves me, but it seems I can never do anything easily. I picture Gale working away in the mines.

"Can we get a photo?" a cameraman asks, gesturing for Peeta and me to pose with the official. The three of us stand together and Peeta wraps his arm around my waist, and I feel his warm hand through the material of my hunter green dress. I lean into my designated husband and press a kiss to his cheek for the photo, for President Snow.

Eight stops to go.

**XXX**


	6. Staying

**XXX**

_District 6_

I can't wake up. The images keep morphing and everyone is dead and it's just me and Snow, blood dripping from his puffy mouth as he walks me down the aisle, his arm a vice dragging me into my predetermined future, whispering terrible things into my ear.

"Katniss," he hisses, shaking me, but his voice changes, becomes softer and more urgent. "Katniss."

I try to fight off the strong grip, my arms flailing, and then I hear him: "Katniss!"

Finally my eyes open. Peeta is standing over me, hands on my shoulders. The moonlight coming in through the window crosses his face and I see his eyes are wide with concern. I croak out his name.

"You were having a nightmare," he says unnecessarily, sitting at the edge of the bed, pulling his hands away. He catches sight of the orange bottle on the bedside table and then looks back at me. "How many did you take?"

"Three," I say. I had finally broken down and let Effie give me pills to help sleep, after my prep team ranted about the bags under my eyes. "I took one last night and it didn't help, so I decided to try a few more. But then I couldn't wake up…"

"The pills dragged you down," Peeta finishes, brushing hair from my face. "Katniss, you have to be careful about those."

"I know," I say in a small voice. I don't plan on using them again.

Peeta rests his hand behind my ear and strokes my hair with his thumb. It's a soothing gesture. "You were walking up and down the train again," I say, thinking of his footsteps passing my door each night.

"I heard you and rushed in."

He stands and I feel cold and sad. "Wait," I say, grabbing his hand, and he turns back to me. "You could… stay."

I'm mean for asking this of him, knowing he won't say no, knowing that he'll stay. But I slept so securely in that cave, sharing a sleeping bag, his heart a steady metronome.

He watches me, debating, and then takes a step toward the bed. I scoot over to make room and he eases in. Our shoulders touch as we lean against the headboard. "To help with the nightmares," I say, convincing myself that's all it is. Friend helping friend.

His arm comes around me and he pulls us down until our heads rest on pillows. I turn and move so that my arm lies over his chest, my face in his neck. For a long time I listen to us breathe and wonder what will happen in District 5.

Seven stops to go.

**XXX**


	7. Altering

**XXX**

_District 5_

Cinna scrutinizes me, eyes roving up and down the latest unbelievable dress he's just helped me into. "What's wrong?" I ask.

He touches the electric yellow fabric around my waist. "Stand up straighter, please," he requests kindly. I do so – I guess I was slouching, but I'm so tired these days posture is hardly heavy on my mind. He frowns. "It isn't falling right."

I look down; feel how the clingy material only just brushes my skin. It makes no sense for Cinna to suddenly not know my measurements, so it must be me.

"Have you been eating, Katniss?" he asks gently, tucking wavy dark hair behind my ear.

"Yes," I say. "Well, trying to. I haven't had much of an appetite lately," I admit. The food on the train and at the dinners is quite good – but with all of the other pressures weighing me down my stomach has been turning after a few bites. I know Peeta's noticed as well, but he hasn't said anything.

"The tour is a lot of work," Cinna agrees neutrally. I can see the question in his eyes, and I want so badly to share what's wrong (which is everything, basically) and have him comfort me. But this tour is a Capitol creation, and you can bet there is hardly a moment a pair of eyes or ears isn't on us. "I'll just take it in a bit. We have some time before the dinner."

He helps me out of the dress and I sit in my tasteful underwear, watching his expert hands work amazingly fast. "I hope you're taking notes," he says suddenly around the pins he's holding between his lips. "You'll never improve your talent otherwise."

The comment catches me by surprise and I laugh aloud – my first genuine laugh in a while. He proceeds to explain what he's doing to the dress in an overly simple tone, glaring at me every so often and asking why I'm not writing it all down. Cinna doesn't know how his teasing lifts my mood.

When Peeta and I meet later to head to the dinner, my lightening dress is flawless; one would never know it had to be altered. He looks handsome in his dark gray suit – together we look like a powerful storm. I remember the way his pale arms encircled me when I woke up this morning, how the sun highlighted the light hairs on them.

He grins as I approach. "You look amazing," he says, a variation on what he says every time, but somehow there is never any less meaning in his words. I slip my arm through his and ignore my insides, already twisting nervously, hoping that maybe tonight will be the turning point, _tonight_ will be the night everyone is convinced and the uprisings end.

Six stops to go.

**XXX**


	8. Admiring

**XXX**

_District 4_

Side by side, Peeta and I press up against the large window that retracts into the ceiling in the last train compartment, watching the endless expanse of blue beyond. "Look at it," I breathe. Neither of us has ever seen the ocean, though I've heard one or two very ancient District 12 residents mention that before the Dark Days people would sometimes trek to the far-off coast.

"It's beautiful," Peeta says. I glance at him and see how his eyes scan the sea, capturing it as best as possible for memory. I'm almost positive that tonight before bed he'll try to paint the scene.

"We are almost at the station!" Effie calls from the doorway, only her head visible – and of that, it's mostly bright aqua wig. "We have another big, big, big day ahead!"

I'm reluctant to leave the view, but Peeta and I dutifully pull ourselves away and follow Effie through the compartments, until we reach the sitting area from where we always emerge. "Look at those," Peeta says, pointing out a window to a group of big white and gray birds soaring along the water. A few dip their yellow beaks in; one comes up with a fish.

"It _is_ the fishing district," Effie says smartly.

"Look at all of the boats," I say, drawn to a window again. The train is slowing, giving me more time to inspect the numerous boats bobbing just off land, all varying in size, some with brightly colored sails, others with powerful motors at the back.

Peeta comes up next to me. "I wish we had time to go out on one," he murmurs so only I hear, not wanting to incur a rant from our escort about time management. "Isn't this Finnick Odair's home district?" he asks at normal volume.

"Oh, yes," Effie says, suddenly sounding dreamy. We look at her and she blushes under heavy makeup. "Perhaps he will make an appearance," she adds, and Peeta and I grin at each other. I try to enjoy the moment of relative normalcy, because the second we step off of the train our high-stakes game resumes.

It comes too soon. Haymitch groggily stumbles into the compartment and then Effie is poking and prodding us one last time. "Big smiles!" she reminds as the door opens. I'm instantly hit with the smell of salt, the sound of waves, foreign but not unpleasant things. Then the camera flashes start.

Five stops to go.

**XXX**


	9. Chastising

**XXX**

_District 3_

Usually Peeta wakes with the sun and disappears from my bed before anyone else is up, but this morning my eyes open and the first thing I see are his golden eyelashes, his mouth slightly parted, his entire face relaxed in sleep. In the night I'd woken up to our legs tangled together, but had quickly tucked mine away. The world thinks we're lovers, but for me even that small, secret bit of personal intimacy had seemed too much.

My stomach rumbles. I didn't eat much again last night, though the dinner at District 4 had an astonishing array of seafood of the likes I'd never seen. I'd been too anxious over the waves of dissatisfaction rolling off the crowds everywhere we went, my skin prickling: were they on the verge of an uprising, too?

I slip out of the bed, pad across the floor to where I'd left my robe, and throw it on before stepping into the hallway. I make my way to the dining car, following the scent of coffee. Somehow the Avox manage to always be at the ready, no matter the time of day or night – I don't want to consider how the Capitol makes this happen.

But it isn't just an Avox that greets me – Effie is already at the table, face and outfit on, pouring cream into her cup, Capitol newspapers spread in front of her.

"Good morning," I say, grabbing myself a cup of black coffee before settling diagonally from her. I don't much care for the taste of the stuff, but at this point it seems necessary.

"Good morning, Katniss," Effie says, scanning an article. She gets to the end and takes a sip from her cup, then delicately places it back on its matching plate. "We should talk, dear."

I swallow too quickly and the liquid burns down my throat. "Oh – okay," I stutter.

"We all know how important the tour is," she begins, dignified. "It allows you and Peeta to see the country and be recognized for your achievements. It boosts morale in the districts." (I don't know what tour she's been on, but I haven't seen much morale boosted.) "It also gives you a brief vacation from home and your families."

"… Right."

"This means that you two have more time to… be together," she continues, and I hear the suggestion in her voice. "With only _I_ to chaperone, you can get away with much more than at home, with your family around. And I do make many allowances… for the public."

Every one of her words is coated in ominous dramatics that I can't take seriously, but I continue to listen. "What I am saying, Katniss, is that it is quite common knowledge that Peeta is sneaking into your room every night and staying until morning – something of which I am _sure_ your mother would never approve," she sniffs. "And as your escort I feel it my duty to warn you of the perils of this sort of thing getting out, and the scandal it could cause."

I hold back an oversized eye roll, because of course Effie feels it's her duty to discuss scandalous perils with me, and my perils seem chaste compared to what Panem is used to hearing about victors. I debate telling her the truth – that it really is only sleeping and nightmare-soothing going on in my compartment, nothing else – but she wouldn't believe me. Besides, this is the sort of thing that if leaked could possibly help my case with the president.

"Does everyone on the train know?" I ask, mimicking worry.

"I should say so," Effie sighs, full of pity for my reputation.

"I'll speak to Peeta about being more discreet. Thank you for the warning," I say, as if she's done me a great service, the kind of thing Effie laps up.

"Of course, dear," she responds, looking satisfied with herself.

That night, or early the next morning, as it were, my compartment door slides open and shut, and then Peeta's weight shifts the mattress. "Effie says everyone knows you come in here at night," I say, watching him settle on his side, facing me, one arm under the pillow. "She says it could be quite the scandal."

"Oh?" Peeta says, his breath minty and his teeth white in the darkness. "Should I not come anymore? To save our reputations?" His whisper is mock serious and makes me smile. "Wouldn't want to upset Effie's delicate standards of propriety."

I snort. "I think it's too late for that, anyway." What I don't say is: _I like having you here too much to care_.

Four stops to go.

**XXX**


	10. Accusing

**XXX**

_District 2_

District 2 has been the most hostile stop we've had yet. Every district has some underlying bit of contempt for us – how can they not, when Peeta and I lived and their children died? I wish I could explain the complexity of my survivor's guilt in a grand speech to the entire district, or at least have Peeta do it, but that sort of stunt would surely lead to only more bad things.

Our brief tour by the huge Peacekeeper training station is full of glares and sneers. Our presentation at the Justice Building is painful – the families of Cato and Clove stare at us so sharply that I'm sure they're planning our demises. We rush through our scripted words, waxing about the bravery and strength of their tributes, and all I can think is: _I sent an arrow into Cato's head_. _I hated your children, and they hated me_.

The reception at the mayor's house is the worst part of the day, as we actually have to interact with the District 2 residents in attendance. Every pair of eyes says the same thing: _Our tributes should be at this dinner, not you_. And it's sort of true: if not for Peeta and me, Cato or Clove likely would have come home victorious.

"Maybe we should ask Effie if we can leave a little early," Peeta suggests in my ear as we walk the length of the buffet table. My gaze darts between the food and the guests watching us. I feel as if I'm back in the arena, sizing up my competition.

"Congratulations," a voice hisses behind us, and we turn. An older woman in a lovely evening gown has materialized. She would be beautiful if not for her scowl. "Are you enjoying yourselves? Are you enjoying your _victory_?"

Peeta's arm snakes around me. Though I appreciate his chivalry, I also want to scoff at him – which of us scored that 11 in training? I can handle a few nasty words. "We are, thank you," I say as graciously as possible.

"I don't know who you think you're fooling," she continues, not trying to lower her voice. "It was all so _convenient_, that you fell in love during the Games, and got the rules changed for you."

My heart thumps loudly and my mouth goes dry. "Now wait a minute—" Peeta starts, taking a step forward, but the woman interrupts him. "Maybe if you weren't trying so hard it would be more believable," she snits, and then a man is at her side, tugging on her arm, muttering, "Pernia, let's go," leading her off.

Haymitch wanders over to us and the party resumes, though more subdued. "You okay?" he asks, looking at both of us but lingering on me.

"Fine," I assure him, and then I wriggle out of Peeta's hold. "I'm just going to get a drink," I say, moving off before either can say anything else, hoping they don't notice the way my arms shake as I ladle punch into a glass.

Three stops to go.

**XXX**


	11. Wishing

**XXX**

_District 1_

My dreams now feature the elegant woman from District 2 whispering a stream of secrets into President Snow's ear with a blood red smirk, and with each breath a firing squad shoots off another round into someone I love – clearest of all is Prim, dark, heavy liquid spilling onto her white dress, saturating the garment as I scream my head off, as I beg for another chance to change things, but Snow just gives the order for another killing, and then Gale is gone, too.

I'm sweating when Peeta manages to shake me awake, shushing and rocking me for an indiscernible amount of time, but I don't really fall back asleep like he does, and it's a relief when the sun comes up and he has to go back to his own compartment.

District 1 is like nothing I've ever seen, the landscape lush, the buildings gleaming, the streets spotless, the people healthy and well-fed. It's easy to picture Glimmer and her district partner living here in the Capitol's pocket, surrounded by beautiful things, a place where being chosen for the Games isn't necessarily a death sentence, unlike District 12.

It's as we're reading our pre-written speeches to the crowd outside of the sparkling Justice Building that I learn the boy's name was Marvel – the boy I shot with an arrow for killing Rue. "Your children served their country bravely and died with dignity," I intone, all the while seeing Glimmer's bloated, stung body, Marvel's face traced with surprise even after death, and I suddenly feel stupid in my diamond-colored dress. There was no dignity in those Games, for any of us, except maybe Rue and Peeta.

The people of 1 don't seem to hate us as much as they do in 2, but the air is still tense, and I'm half-waiting for someone else to pop up and declare that we're faking it horribly. This is our last chance to reach a district – all that's left is the Capitol and then home. The Capitol doesn't need convincing and the people at home are nowhere near planning an uprising.

_Home_, I think, missing it horribly, wishing I were there now in the woods, wishing I had more time on the tour, wishing none of this was happening.

Two stops to go.

**XXX**


	12. Proposing

**XXX**

_The Capitol_

"That's great!" Caesar Flickerman hoots, slapping his hand against his thigh after Peeta finishes a charming Victory Tour anecdote. The crowd in the Training Center is squawking like birds, loving every minute of the interview, everyone so glad to finally be seeing their victors on stage again. I brighten the smile Cinna reminded me to wear and nod as if the memory is on my mind, and not on what is about to happen.

Just as expected, Caesar quiets the audience down and then grins at, taking us in. "So," he begins conspiratorially, bright lips curling, "Tell us. What does the future have in store for Peeta and Katniss, hm?"

"Well, Caesar, I was hoping to find that out myself," Peeta says on cue, and then he turns and looks at me and my heart aches at the nervousness and excitement he's radiating so gamely. He takes both of my hands in his and, to the gasps and shrieks of the crowd, slides off of the loveseat we're sharing onto one knee. We haven't practiced this – in fact, since I suggested he propose a few days ago, we've been avoiding each other much like we'd been doing in 12 after the Games.

"Katniss," he begins, and his eyes are too blue, like the ocean of District 4. "In a short time we've been through so much together. But I have loved you since I was five years old, and I plan on loving you for the rest of my life, and longer. I know we're young, but I can't imagine spending another day without you." My eyes water of their own accord, and I try to ignore his honesty and will this to be just another part of the play we're acting. "So please don't make me. Make me the happiest, luckiest guy in the world. Marry me, _please_, marry me."

I choke on the lump in my throat, feeling desperate and despicable and unexplainably sad. "Yes," I whisper, and then louder: "Yes!" I jump to my feet and pull Peeta with me, and in this kiss more than any other I feel the lie we're projecting. But the audience loves it, screaming and crying and hugging each other, and the cameras love it too. Caesar Flickerman is beside himself, unable to speak.

When our lips separate I see President Snow making his way up the stage, his grin overly jovial, and I realize: This is it. This is when I find out my fate.

_("I thought he wanted it, anyway."_

"_Not like this, he didn't. He wanted it to be real."_)

**XXX**


	13. Home

_A/N: Thank you everyone for reading, reviewing, favorite-ing, and alerting this story. Your kind words make my day, and I hope you will return for other stories I plan to offer in the future. I loved writing and sharing this with you! _

**XXX**

_District 12_

"Let me walk you home," Peeta offers, and we start back to the Victor's Village. The night is cold but clear, countless stars guiding us on.

We've waved goodbye to the camera crews, the photographers, the prep teams and stylists and Effie, all of whom stayed through the Harvest Festival, which officially ended the Victory Tour. I was carried through the party in the Capitol, the dinner at Mayor Undersee's, the Festival, by my new resolve in getting whomever possible and myself out of the district. Seeing my mother and sister was like starting to breathe again, strengthening my decision: I'd done what I could to appease Snow, but now, confirming an uprising in 8 with my own eyes, it was time to create my own rules.

It feels strange to be alone with Peeta suddenly, knowing that we are truly _alone_, home, with no one to fake for. There's already a space between us, much wider than anything on the tour. We'd both noticed Gale's absence from the Harvest Festival – I was almost glad, remembering Peeta's tipsy comments at one of the first district dinners. But I'm already planning what I'll say to Gale about leaving, imagining his possible responses, the expressions his familiar face may make. That's if I can ever get him to meet me – I can guess what he thinks of my Capitol engagement.

We don't speak as we walk. I'm busy ruminating on the last few weeks, and on what the next few weeks may bring – I've decided I'll propose my escape plan to Gale first, because once I have him, getting his family and mine to go along will be easier. I also don't say anything because I worry that I may blab everything to Peeta if I open my mouth, and I don't feel ready to tell him that I didn't convince Snow, and that there's an uprising in 8, and that I'd like him to run away with me, until I've sorted a few more things out.

He puts his hands in his pockets as the inviting lights from the three occupied houses in the Village draw near. I remember the way he brushed hair from my forehead yesterday, our last morning together on the train. For the first time in a long time I hadn't had a nightmare, and he'd said I'd slept like I was happy. How will I sleep now, without him in the same bed? We haven't been gone very long, but already I can't remember what it was like before.

My house comes along first, Prim and my mother inside awaiting my return. I've hardly spent more than a minute at a time with them, and I know they'll want every detail of my trip. I'll be giving them a highly edited version.

"Well," I say, and we slow to a stop by the pathway leading to the door. "Thanks for walking me."

"Of course," Peeta says, staring past me.

An odd parting conversation for two people who just became engaged, but what else should we do with these circumstances? Besides, soon, this faux romance will be done with, and I can get back to being too busy to worry about confusing feelings for baker's sons and hunting partners. "I'll see you soon," I promise, beginning to turn and head to the house, exhaustion settling in.

"Katniss!" he calls, and I look back. He's striding towards me purposefully, and I wonder what he's about to do – but then his hands are on my face, taking me in for a hard kiss that I don't fight. It doesn't last long, and when he lets me go he looks sheepish. "I just wanted one real kiss to remember from all of this," he says, eyes on mine. "No cameras or other people."

What can I say to this? I wish for the millionth time that I could just love him like everyone thinks I do, but then Gale is in my mind, and uprisings, and old, old decisions of not getting married and having a family, things Peeta Mellark deserves to have, _needs_ to have. So I say: "Okay."

"Goodnight, Katniss," he says. He disappears in the direction of his house, the tour over, the game done.

"Goodnight," I return to the darkness.

**XXX**


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